Years Go By
by Sol1056
Summary: 03&04. A collection of three sets of stories, revolving around conflicts in a relationship. The expectation or hope that two people are fated to be together does not necessarily mean unending bliss.
1. When We Were Young 1

**When We Were Young 1**

_Spring, 206_

Trowa made sure the newspaper was folded so the headline faced out, and he sat waiting, facing the door of the condo. A half-hour passed while he studied the business articles, brainstormed on his recent cases, and watched the clock. At eight, Quatre came through the door, kicking it shut with a weary expression as he dropped his briefcase. His first action, as always, was to come give Trowa a quick kiss before stripping off his tie and dropping it on the sofa, then turning to sit on the back as he pulled off his shoes, leaving them where they lay.

"Are you going to put those away?" Trowa turned the page in the newspaper, and began reading about the latest developments in the hydroelectric dam outside Sanq's capital city.

Quatre didn't move for a second, then he bent over, picking up his shoes and his tie with a disgruntled expression. He disappeared down the hallway; Trowa entertained his daily fantasy of dirty clothes going into the hamper. He wasn't holding his breath.

A few minutes later Quatre reappeared in old blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt with grease stains from one of Duo's mechanical projects. He collapsed onto the sofa, then craned his neck to give Trowa a tired smile. "Did you eat already?"

"Mm-hmm." Trowa glanced at him sideways, and pointedly returned his attention to the paper. "Heero and I grabbed something when our shift ended."

"You missed lunch again," Quatre guessed.

Trowa shrugged.

"Okay." Quatre sighed deeply, and put a hand on his forehead. "What is it now?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have that look."

Trowa considered that carefully. "I do not."

"Yes, you do." Quatre covered his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just say it, and then I can go reheat leftovers with some peace of mind."

"Fine." Trowa held up the newspaper, turned to show the headline: WEI LAYS OFF SIXTY THOUSAND. "What's this about?"

"Oh." Quatre shrugged. "We've got to close two mining satellites."

"And that's the most you can say?" Trowa frowned when Quatre shrugged again, looking away. "That's not just sixty thousand people. That's them, and their families, and all the businesses that exist to support them. A single satellite might exist for your family's business but the population on them is easily in the two hundred thousands--"

"It's a done deal." Quatre came to his feet, waving Trowa's words away. "I'm starving."

"And you're going to be forcing a lot of families into starving, as well." Trowa folded the newspaper back with a snap, and set it on the side table. He could feel Quatre halting in the doorway to the kitchen, but he didn't turn around.

"Trowa," Quatre replied, evenly. "This is business. Yes, I regret that the mining satellite has passed its peak. But the economics of the situation are too simple to ignore, and I'm not a charity."

"You always say it's a family business. Aren't these people your family? They've been working for the Winners for three generations--"

"What do you want from me?" Quatre laughed, softly, but bitterly. "I've been over this with the board a dozen times. Times change. Sacrifices must be made--"

"By them, never by you." Trowa didn't care if he had begun to sound petulant; he'd researched the situation carefully. WEI was cutting its losses well before it had even risked a long glance at the red. Quatre's family had gotten to where it was by taking risks, and now it wouldn't take so much as a single step across the street without thinking fifteen times, twenty studies, and downsizing first.

"You'd better not be suggesting I take a cut in pay," Quatre retorted, a churlish tone in his voice. "I work eighty hour weeks for this company. I deserve every penny."

"I didn't say that. I just think--"

"I don't think you do. Seems to me you always have a lot to say about how I run my business, and I really don't get why you have to backseat drive me on it. When we met, you knew I was a businessman--"

"No, no, I did not." Trowa came to his feet, angry, but still quiet-voiced. "I knew you were a pilot who was willing to move heaven and earth to help those who had no voice."

Quatre opened his mouth, eyes wide, then closed his mouth, looking away. "I'm not fifteen any more. And I'm not just piloting some hulking machine, I'm running a multi-billion-dollar business. You and the rest of the bleeding hearts would want me to--"

"Now I'm a bleeding heart?" Trowa shook his head. "You've met with the board a dozen times? Meet another dozen times. You could build ZERO from scratch with no engineering expertise, why can't you find a way that doesn't involve throwing nearly a quarter of a million people out into the cold?"

"It doesn't work that way," Quatre replied, through gritted teeth. "Stop acting like I'm the bad guy, here. Not every one goes home happy at the end of the day, and I'd think you understand that, _Commander_."

"I don't make a habit of throwing the good guys in prison," Trowa snapped. "There's no comparison."

"You uphold laws that are archaic and convoluted, changing daily based on some political--"

"This isn't about me, damn it," Trowa burst out. "This is about the fact that you're not willing to take a risk and try something--"

"Me? Not take risks?" Quatre's tone became flat, and displeased. "You forget who you're talking to."

"No, I know exactly who I'm talking to," Trowa shot back. "Some washed-up businessman who doesn't mind that his reputation has _Gundam Pilot_ stuck at the end, but who is more interested in clinging to his family's money than trying to find a new solution to old rules. The _pilot_ I fell in love with would never accept that sacrifices must be made for the sake of a pile of cash--"

"The pilot you fell in love with could never have provided the life you've had, not on your government salary!"

"Fuck you and your goddamn money," Trowa shouted, not caring when Quatre flinched. "I didn't fall in love with you when you were rich, but when you had nothing, and if that's all you'd ever had, I would've been--"

"And you call _me_ an idealist?" Quatre asked, incredulously. "What do you think pays the bills? How do you think we afforded--"

"We could do all this with a lot less money. We don't need this money, or this condo, or this view, or this leather sofa or the marble in the foyer or the three extra bedrooms or the--"

"What's the point?" Quatre turned away. "I'm getting something to eat. I'm not having this argument on an empty stomach."

Trowa snorted, and in three strides was across the room, taking his coat from the closet. "We won't have it at all, then, but I'm not going to have my name attached to someone who can toss away so many lives without even trying to come up with--"

"How little faith do you have in me? How can you possibly see them as so valuable, and not see that I've tried my best?"

"Because they don't have a voice, Quatre." Trowa pulled on his jacket with stiff, angry movements. "You have money to buy a city if you want, people will listen to you. Those folks you want to fire, and everyone who counts on them--they don't get a say in your board meetings. Once you stood for people like that." He slammed the closet door shut and picked up his keys. "Now you just screw them over."

"Trowa--"

"I'll be at Wufei's. Don't wait up." Trowa slammed the front door behind him, and took a second to exhale through his nose. Only once he stood at the elevator did he look down at the keys in his hand, and wanted to laugh. He'd picked up the spare keys to Duo's garage and not the keys to his motorcycle.

Didn't it just figure, but then, maybe the ten-block walk to Wufei's would do him some good.


	2. When We Were Young 2

**When We Were Young 2**

Spring, 202

* * *

When Heero set the coffee mug down before him, Trowa poured in two spoonfuls of sugar, then half the milk. Heero winced, and Trowa waved him away. "I'm not drinking Duo's coffee without something between me and the acidic levels. I'm halfway to a stomach ulcer as it is."

"We're going to the gym later." That was Heero: not really an offer, or a question. Just a flat statement, but Trowa knew what he meant.

"No. I'd probably break the damn punching bag."

He managed a tight smile for Duo, wandering into the apartment's kitchen with some unknown gadget in his hands. Duo nearly walked into the fridge, then squinted at it, then the gadget, before setting the thing on the countertop and digging around in the fridge for an apple. He started to leave, but Heero snagged him by the shirt. When Duo looked surprised, Heero jerked his head toward the little piece of machinery, which Duo picked up, giving Heero a casual shrug. He left, and Heero returned to giving Trowa his full attention.

"See, that's what I mean," Trowa finally said. He stared down into his coffee, nearly white with milk, and still undrinkable. "Quatre leaves his shit everywhere. I'm not a maid service, I tell him. But we have a maid, he says. And she's not your personal slave, I say. It's not just that she shouldn't have to do everything, but that I don't like living in a pigsty." He grimaced. "Why can't he just pick up his stuff and put it away, without fussing about it for ten minutes?" He stirred another teaspoon of sugar into his cup. "I just wish we could be...more like you two. You always get along, and you're always so--" He stared at the coffee Heero had just spit out across the countertop. "Heero?"

"I'm okay." Heero coughed, thumping himself on the chest, and set the mug down with a solid thunk. "What gave you the notion Duo and I always get along?"

"I..." Trowa glanced over to see Duo leaning against the doorjamb; he now had a gadget in each hand, and a screwdriver behind one ear. "I've never seen you argue," he finally replied, uneasy at Duo's amused look and Heero's bewildered stare.

"Oh, we argue." Duo shrugged, and held up the item in his left hand, frowning at it closely.

"We don't argue," Heero retorted, half to Duo, half explaining to Trowa. "I say something, and Duo goes off for twenty minutes. When he runs out of steam, that's it. I'm not sure that's how normal couples argue." He raised the mug, and mopped underneath it, then wiped the bottom. "Like you and Quatre. You can each get in a word edgewise."

"Hey!" Duo rolled his eyes. "I let you get in plenty of words."

Heero grumbled something inaudible, and shook his head at Trowa. "Tell him you like the place clean."

"I do. Every ten minutes." Trowa leaned back, crossing his arms. He couldn't help feeling uncomfortable, with Duo's even stare practically poking holes in the back of his neck. "Then I just feel like I've turned into my sister, nagging him. And he says we have enough room that if he wants a messy study, he can. But we have too much room! It drives me batshit insane, frankly."

"You're used to small trailers." Heero shrugged.

"It's not like I wanted to live in a shoebox," Trowa retorted. "But I didn't exactly think a three-story penthouse was necessary, either. We have a room dedicated to nothing but watching television, which is ridiculous considering there's a television in the bathroom, one in the bedroom, one in the living room, and another in the kitchen! We have three guest rooms which are nothing but guest rooms. The rest of the time they gather dust."

"Maybe you should rent them out," Duo suggested. He yelped suddenly, and disappeared down the hallway, reappearing a minute later, hastily pulling a coat on. "Late to see Hilde." He swatted Heero on the head from behind, and dashed off. A second later the front door slammed, and Heero gave Trowa a glum look.

"He always slams the door, he's always late, and he never kisses me in front of other people." Heero recited the list in a flat tone, and got up to pour himself more coffee. "At least his coffee is somewhat decent."

"Your scientist did something to your tastebuds, then." Trowa shoved his cup away. "My sister makes better coffee."

"I make worse coffee," Heero pointed out.

"Right." Trowa picked up his mug again. "Maybe we should go for couples' counseling, because I've lived with this for two years. I want to be with him, but I'm not sure I want to be married to him. Not if this is what it'll always be like."

"Get a smaller place, with just one guest bedroom. Make him keep his mess behind a door you can close." Heero glanced toward the empty hallway. "That's what I do with Duo, or we'd be knee-deep in unidentifiable things that haven't worked since the colonies were built."

"It's not just that. It's..." Trowa sighed. "He makes so much fucking money! I know it doesn't bother him that I don't, and I know he sets his salary lower than most of his peers anyway, but it's still quadruple what I make. I feel like I'm some kind of damn kept man."

Heero snorted.

"I do! We go to business dinners and those people treat me like I'm just dallying with the Preventers, passing time before..." Trowa stared intently at nothing in particular, remembering the previous weekend with a scowl. "Like I should stop working and become a house-husband."

"You'd have more time to clean up after him," Heero replied.

"I'd have more time to plot his death for not cleaning up," Trowa shot back.


	3. When We Were Young 3

**When We Were Young 3**

_Winter, 201_

* * *

Quatre smiled at the young sales clerk, and realized he'd left Trowa behind somewhere. He gestured at the young girl to wait, and looked around for his errant partner. Quatre found him studying a small table not far from the store's entrance.

"I like this one," Trowa told him. He lifted up the lid, revealing a mirror and a small tray.

"I think it's an old shaving table." Quatre frowned. "That's hardly suitable for our foyer. I was thinking something more like..." He glanced around, until his gaze fell on a large half-circle, with ornate legs. "That's cool."

Trowa stared for a long moment, as the sales clerk came to stand nearby, with the eager expression of someone waiting to answer any question that might arise. Quatre noted her name tag, and gave her another smile, this one a bit more pained as he waited for Trowa's commentary.

"What else does it do?" Trowa finally asked.

"It doesn't need to do anything but be a table," Quatre replied, patiently. "I just wanted a place to put mail, put our keys, gloves, stuff like..." He winced at Trowa's sharp look. "If we're coming in and going back out again soon, it's okay to just set something aside rather than putting it away."

Trowa snorted and studied the table a bit longer. "I don't like the legs," he finally said.

"What kind of table?" The sales girl gave them both a bright smile; she deflated a bit at Trowa's sulky look, but held on gamely, obviously realizing it was better to focus on Quatre. "That table is a reproduction in the Empire style, but we have Victorian and even Post-modern as well..."

"Post-modern," Trowa stated.

Quatre just sighed. He would've preferred Victorian, actually; he'd always liked the curves. Or Art Deco. Trowa tended towards simply utilitarian, which wasn't really a style so much as a demand that everything had to have at least six purposes for existing, or it just annoyed Trowa that it would take up so much space. Quatre was sometimes surprised Trowa hadn't figured out a way to turn his electric toothbrush into a mini-drill; then again, perhaps he had and Quatre just hadn't noticed because for him, an electric toothbrush was designed, and built, to be an electric toothbrush. Nothing more, nothing less, and sometimes that was fine. Unless you were Trowa.

"How about these?" Amy waved her hand towards a collection of glass-and-steel tables, but two were bentwood. Quatre made a beeline for those, while Trowa walked around the entire collection from a short distance, his frown growing.

"I like this one," Quatre announced. He ran a hand over the curved line of the table's half-oval. The legs seemed to curve down from the edges in a C-shape, meeting at the center before spreading out to form feet. "Is this beech?"

"Birch," Amy replied. "It's a shade whiter than beech."

"There's not even a drawer," Trowa grumbled. "And it's at least four feet across."

Quatre moved away from the table, coming up behind Trowa to say through gritted teeth, "the foyer is sixteen feet by sixteen feet. Anything less than four feet will look lost in the space." Amazingly, Trowa didn't make his customary complaint about the size of the foyer; he continued to stare glumly at the table -- which was just a table, nothing more, nothing less. Eventually, lips pressed firmly together, Trowa nodded once, turned, and left. Quatre had to breathe through his nose before nodding to Amy. "We'll take that one."

"Uhm, are you sure?" She glanced past Quatre, toward the front of the store, worried. "Did you want to think about it, perhaps?"

"No, that won't be necessary." Quatre handed over his card and filled out the delivery information, shaking hands with Amy before leaving the store. Next door was a small coffee shop, and he wasn't surprised to find Trowa sitting at one of the tables on the side, nursing a cup of chai. Quatre slid into the seat opposite Trowa, but shook his head when the waiter started to head in their direction. For a long moment, no one spoke, and Quatre waited.

"It is a pretty wood," Trowa finally said, but he didn't look up. He'd relaxed a fraction, but the sulky edge to his voice remained.

"I think it'll look good."

Trowa nodded, and finished his drink. He set the cup down, and gave Quatre a wry look. "But it's just going to be sitting there."

"It'll be holding stuff. It's not like it's doing absolutely nothing."

"Still."

Quatre took a deep breath, then a second one. "Not everything needs to do twenty things."

"I never said I wanted something that does twenty things. But just one thing? That's such a waste of--"

"We have more space than we know what to do with," Quatre protested. "Why can't we fill it up with beautiful things, even if those things are just a table, and nothing else?"

"Because it's more space for stuff to end up on," Trowa grumbled, barely loud enough for Quatre to catch. "Every horizontal surface..."

"Not this table. Really," Quatre promised. "Just keys and mail."

"We have an office for mail."

"We need a place to put the mail while we're taking off our coats." Quatre couldn't help but think: point for me.

Trowa's lips quirked, just slightly, and his gaze slid away from Quatre to stare out at the passerbys. "I see." He stood up, and jerked his head toward the door. "What's next on the list?"

"We need to find a gift for Hilde's baby shower."

"Right." Trowa smiled, just the barest amount. "I was thinking one of those cribs that you can dismantle and make into a twin bed as the child gets older."

Quatre was tempted to smack himself in the forehead. He should've known, but he decided it was better to give in. If he didn't, Trowa might sneak in some bizarrely-engineered extra toy for the baby, that looked like a beach ball but unfolded to be a vacuum cleaner, a coffee grinder, with extra space for storing camera batteries. After all, he'd won on the table; he could let Trowa have victory on a gift for someone else.


	4. When We Were Young 4

**When We Were Young 4**

_Spring, 201_

* * *

Quatre looked through his mail while Trowa toed off his shoes and wandered into the apartment's depths, trying to find the kitchen again. Hopefully the maid and cook wouldn't be there to hustle him out and insist they bring him his drink. He really just wanted a drink, made the way he liked, without any fanfare. He peered around the door, and smiled to himself: the coast was clear. He had to open at least four cabinets before he found the glasses, and none of them were the right kind for a highball, but an orange juice glass might do in a pinch. Then he just needed to remember which cabinet held the liquor...

"Trowa?" Quatre wandered in, looking around with a puzzled expression. "What are you doing in here? Where's Mary?"

"Shh, don't go finding her." Trowa brought out a bottle of some fine whiskey, and changed his mind on the drink. Straight whiskey would do, after the day he'd had. When Quatre came up behind him to wrap his arms around Trowa's waist, Trowa smiled, then pretended to frown at being bumped during the delicate process of flicking water at the whiskey.

But he nearly dropped the glass when Quatre whispered into his ear, "what do you think about moving in together?"

"What?" Trowa blinked a few times, then took a larger sip of the drink than he'd planned. He set it down before answering, "you mean, find a place together?"

"No, I figured here's fine. It's near both our works, and--"

"It's large enough for the entire circus." Trowa tried not to think about living all the time in a place where strangers--Mary, and the maid, what was her name? and the butler--he was still unable to look the man in the eye ever since Wufei had swung by the morning after Trowa had stayed the night, for the first time--and the butler had come up to announce Wufei and... Trowa sighed.

"You're thinking about Montgomery walking in on us," Quatre teased. "I can tell. You're blushing."

"I'm not," Trowa protested, but had to smile. "Fine."

"So you'll move in?"

"I don't--" He craned his neck and caught the barest glimpse of Quatre's crestfallen expression. Turning in Quatre's arms, Trowa kissed him, chastely, then deeper, trying to reassure Quatre, and perhaps himself.

What would he do with himself in a house that had three floors, five bathrooms, a master suite larger than his entire apartment... and his sofa. He and Cathy had searched for three weeks to find a sofa long enough for Trowa's legs. He rather liked the color, too, a pale blue, but he couldn't think of it ever fitting into Quatre's elegant, pristine, decorative world with its curlicues and sweeping arches and elaborate tilework in every room. And the lamp in his dining room, cobalt blue, that Quatre had declared minimalist but for the fact that it was actually colored. He pulled away from the kiss, aware he'd become distracted, and Quatre's puzzled frown showed his lover had noticed, too.

"Trowa, you don't have--"

"It's okay." Trowa nodded firmly, and kissed Quatre again. "We'll figure it out." Maybe he'd give the lamp to Sally; she'd complimented it the last time she'd visited. And Cathy liked the sofa, too. He could help her rearrange her tiny living room, and then he'd also have a place to sleep when he came to visit. He set that aside, and did his best to kiss away the beaming smile on Quatre's face.

Three weeks later, he moved in, arriving while Quatre was at work, taking his lunch break to visit his apartment near the Preventers' main headquarters. Everything was ready; Heero helped him carry the four boxes down to the curb, and took a cab with him to Quatre's. Neither said anything, but Trowa could tell Heero studied him with new eyes as they carried the boxes up to the master suite. Trowa stared at them for a second, and pushed two into the back corner of the closet Quatre had designated his. He straighted up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He'd been doing that for three weeks, staring at himself, as if looking with entirely new eyes. Not at himself, but at the space he occupied: a floral sofa, with curved legs and broad arms, or the tiled hallway at the top of the stairs leading to the master suite, or in the bathroom, a hand on the gilt taps. He felt like an infiltrator.

"You're not happy," Heero observed, from where he stood looking over the rows of ties, visible through Quatre's half-open dressing room door.

"I am." Trowa shrugged, and picked up his coat, checking his sidearm. "Let's get back to work."

Heero turned with a curious expression, but he didn't ask, and Trowa didn't offer.


	5. When We Were Young 5

**When We Were Young 5**

_Autumn, 202_

* * *

Quatre wrinkled his nose at the carrot slices in his salad, and carefully picked around them. Only when a hand appeared in his vision, waving under his nose, did he start and look up with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Rel, I'm just not in a very social mood today, I suppose." He did a habitual sweep across the restuarant, but it looked like both the paparazzi and any potential stalkers had decided to at least let Relena get through the first two courses in peace. Quatre gave her another regretful smile. "I'm afraid I was lost in my own thoughts."

"I was mostly arguing to the choir, I expect." Relena shrugged and had another onion ring. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing." Quatre leaned back, and pushed his salad plate away with two fingers. "Preaching at me about what?"

"Yes, you had a very nothing expression for about ten minutes there," Relena observed. Her faux-stern look faded into one of friendly concern. "Really, Quatre. We're friends. I'm here to listen if you need me to." She paused, and her lips quirked into almost a smile, but it was promptly buried under diplomatic training into a completely deadpan expression. "And I promise not to breathe a word of it to Dorothy."

Quatre had to chuckle. "It's not really that important. Just a little...annoyed at Trowa right now."

"What? Trouble in paradise?"

"It's hardly paradise." Quatre couldn't help but snort. "Unless you mean his case resolution record, which continues to be perfect."

"That's not what Heero says."

"Heero's wrong."

Relena's eyebrows went up at Quatre's quick response, but she said nothing.

"Yes, I'm biased. But still, he works such long hours." He shrugged. "I do, too."

"You're a lot alike that way." She dipped another onion ring in the ketchup, then dipped it again, before biting down with a pleased look. She'd sworn they had the best onion rings in Brussels; Quatre had no interest in eating onions, flour, and grease, but she seemed to enjoy them immensely. "Actually, all of us are, now that I think about it." She held up her glass as their waiter passed, and turned back to Quatre with a frown. "So you argued about how many cases he has?"

"No." He sighed, and propped his chin on his fist, giving his closest friend a smile. "It sounds stupid but...we argued about the war."

Relena blinked.

"Well, not precisely. I don't even remember how it came up, now. Just some random comment on my part, teasing him, I think, and I compared something to sleeping with Duo."

Her eyes went impossibly wide, and she froze with the onion ring halfway to her mouth. A large drop of ketchup splatted on the plate, but she didn't notice.

"Err, I didn't mean like that."

She visibly deflated, and bit into her onion ring with a disappointed expression.

"But..." Quatre leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Trowa thought I did."

"Oh." Relena brightened, and he nearly rolled his eyes. "So he's jealous?"

"More like..." He thought for a minute; the sex that night had been wild, and he had no idea his body could bend in some of those ways, but Trowa's certainly could, and... He frowned, and reminded himself he was eating at a very pricey restaurant with the current Vice Minister. "I think jealous does cover it."

"That's good. A little jealousy is always a good thing." She nodded, then frowned. "Within reason. Too much, and I don't know about you, but it makes me want to punch someone." When Quatre didn't respond, she wiped her fingers on her napkin, and pushed away the remains of her appetizer. "That's why I dumped Heero, after all."

"Yeah...wait, what? You said it was mutual!"

"It was. Sort of." Relena's smile became pained. "If someone so much as looked at me funny, Heero was on them like paint on plaster. It was flattering at first, then amusing, and then just annoying, and finally infuriating."

"You dated for two months," he reminded her.

"The process apparently doesn't take that long," she retorted. "After he spent an evening sulking because I had to dance with heads of state and couldn't spend every dance with him, he and I had it out. I ended up throwing his entire overnight bag at him--" She frowned, lost in recollection-- "and I've always wondered why he might think an entire arsenal was necessary when spending the night, and while I have missed that thing he could do with his tongue--"

Quatre winced. "Too much information, dear."

"But--" she raised a finger, eyes crinkled in a half-smile, "I won't put up with being treated like someone's possession." Relena lowered her hand, and all humor was wiped from her voice. "Is that what's going on with you two?"

"No. I don't think so." He shook his head. "No, it's worse. I told him, and then that night we were supposed to hang out with Duo and Hilde." Quatre scowled. "The whole time, Trowa just glared at Duo. Outright. It wasn't obvious to Duo--he did ask me halfway through the movie what was up, but Hilde picked up on it, and I think she had a miserable time. What really gets me is that I know Hilde had a huge crush on Trowa in the year or so after the war, and you don't see me pouting in the corner because of what happened back when we were kids!"

"Kids with big machines," Relena pointed out. "Not really kids."

"We were young," he protested. "And stupid."

"Stupid enough to sleep with someone else's man."

"He wasn't anyone's man!"

"Ah-hah! You did sleep with him!"

"Yes! No!" He threw up his hands. "It was right after Heero self-destructed. I was upset at what had happened, but Duo was worse off, since he'd considered Heero not just a compatriot but almost a friend. We didn't do anything. We just talked about it, and finally slept. Like puppies, for warmth."

"Naked puppies?"

"Would you stop!"

"Just asking."

"If you tell Dorothy, I will paint your car neon green."

Relena pursed her lips. "Escort me to the next gala, and I won't tell Dorothy."

"Hey!" Quatre gaped. "You're not supposed to tell her anyway, or anyone! Friends, damn it."

She pointed a neatly-manicured finger at her chest. "Politician." The finger swiveled to point at Quatre. "Businessman." She smiled. "You know how to deal."

"Great. If Trowa starts glaring at you, too, don't be surprised." He ran fingers through his hair, frustrated. She reached over, taking his hand and pulling it away from his head, squeezing his fingers. "We've been together almost four years. We've been living together for a year. Why is he so upset about something that happened seven years ago?"

"Maybe he's just worried that you might change your mind." Relena sighed. "That's why I couldn't make it work with Heero. I couldn't reassure him every possible minute that I'd always be there for him. I couldn't promise that. And I couldn't promise I would give him everything I have and am, because some things I do want to keep for myself. To him, I might as well have said I didn't love him after all."

"Great," Quatre groaned. "I hate your armchair psychology. Trowa's hard enough to handle without me having to run around behind him and coddle his insecurities."

She looked surprised. "Well, I didn't mean it quite like that--"

"But that's how it feels, sometimes." The dam had broken, and Quatre tried his best to keep his voice low, and not sound too much like he was complaining, but he was, and it felt good to finally tell someone. "Every penny I spend, he watches with this look on his face like he's counting it up in his head, and every time I ask him if he wants to do something, if I don't wait after that night for him to ask, he gets sulky. Like he's keeping some kind of internal scorecard. I asked him to dinner, he asks me, I asked him if he wants to catch a movie, then he has to ask me. And then I had to go and blurt out about Duo, and just one lousy night where we didn't even have sex, it was perfectly harmless, and--"

"You mean innocent." Relena's glance was too sharp, but she didn't look like she was teasing. In fact, she had her politician's face on. "You said harmless."

"Yeah, harmless, I mean, innocent."

"Are you sure nothing happened? Because you look very guilty right now."

"Because now it feels like everyone's treating me like I am!" Quatre shook his head. "This isn't about me, it's about Trowa being convinced I'm going to throw him out any minute, if he doesn't hold his own or some ridiculous shit--"

"Did you tell him that was ridiculous?"

"What? That he's jealous of Duo?"

"No, about holding his own." Relena let go of Quatre's hand, leaning back so the waiters could clear their plates and refill her glass of tea. Only once they had privacy again did she give Quatre an exasperated look. "It's not very wise to tell one's lover that his issues are ridiculous shit, Quatre."

Quatre had to take a second to get over the surprise of Relena using profanity; minorly annoyed at her victorious look, he snapped, "it's hardly wise to get a stick up one's ass about things long gone in the past." He frowned when she didn't lose that smile. "You've been hanging out with Dorothy too long."

Relena picked up her fork, and stabbed at her green beans. "If that were true, I would've kicked you in the head and sent you home to Trowa by now."

"He's on a case."

"Then I'd send you to headquarters. With roses. And kneepads." She smiled sweetly. "Doesn't matter if it happened seven years ago, and I don't think it matters if he's being irrational. If you're willing to put up with it, then don't rouse the sleeping lion, and if you do, be prepared to grovel."

"Kneepads." Quatre sighed. "For the grovelling, I take it."

"Copious amounts."

"He doesn't like roses."

"Insert flower of choice. If he were female, I'd suggest chocolate. Maybe take him a new chess set." She smiled, a bit wickedly. "And then, be sure to let him win at least the next ten or fifteen times, until he's come to his senses and gotten over his fear that you'll ditch him and run off with Duo." She snorted. "Because no matter what Heero thinks, Duo is certainly not much of a catch unless you're in the market for a top pilot with an unnatural amount of hair."

"I admit, I'm not really one for the hair." Quatre couldn't hide the leer. "But the piloting skills...now, those do have their benefits."

"You! You did sleep with him!"

Quatre just smiled in a knowing manner, and made plans to do his grovelling in the bedroom. His knees would thank him for it, he was sure.


	6. When We Were Young 6

**When We Were Young 6**

_Summer, 202_

* * *

Trowa fingered the letter in his pocket, and whistled under his breath while the elevator climbed steadily toward the thirty-fifth floor. When the doors opened to a soft chime, he stepped into the apartment, nodding to Montgomery as the door was opened. It'd taken him six months to stop flushing when the man tried to greet him in the evening, but he'd finally managed some semblance of cool again. He accepted help shirking off his coat, but grabbed the letter from his jacket pocket, along with his sidearm -- which Montgomery and the rest of the staff refused to touch, let alone even acknowledge -- and took the stairs two at a time, up to Quatre's study.

"Hey," he said, pushing the door open, not surprised to find Quatre staring off into nothing, hands clasped before his mouth, a slight frown creasing his brow. Trowa smiled and came around behind the desk, giving Quatre a quick kiss on the cheek, and sliding his arms down around Quatre's neck to hug him from behind. Quatre smiled and held Trowa's arms in place, leaning back to give him a tired smile.

"Bills," Quatre said. "I have no idea why I insist on doing this myself."

Trowa looked over the papers, and thought of his own bills. Two credit card companies, and the payment on his motorcycle -- a payment that'd been made significantly easier by Une's unexpected benevolence after three successful cases in a row. Not just a third quarter bonus, but a ten percent raise. He felt flushed with pride, and he wanted to take Quatre out to dinner. Really suprise his lover, in ways he didn't usually get to do, and hopefully not in some way that involved guns or machinery. A few more letters were scattered across the desk; they looked like bank statements. There were more papers under those, but Quatre's desk was always covered in papers. Trowa shook his head.

"I can do that." To Quatre's startled laugh, Trowa frowned. "No, really. I know how to balance a check book. And if you're serious about putting our accounts together--"

"I am, I am, but I didn't think you'd--"

"Then I can do the bills." Trowa pulled away, and guided Quatre to his feet, then gently shoved him out from behind the desk. "Go get me a drink, and pick out where you want to have dinner. We're celebrating."

"While normally I would definitely celebrate at the idea of someone else doing the accounting for me," Quatre replied, a bit dryly, "I'm not sure this is something you might consider a cause for celebration. More like, a cause for getting your head examined." He paused in the doorway, loosening the tie he'd still not removed since he'd come home. "Are you sure about this? I know I complain, but it's not really that bad. I'm used to it, after all."

"Checkbook, check," Trowa muttered, pulling up the registry on the system and typing in the algorithm Quatre used for all their shared passwords. He waved Quatre away with a smile, and brought out the letter from Une, smiling at it. He'd never had a raise before; he'd certainly never had a job where he had a title -- Captain -- and for a moment he thought of the Captain who'd raised him, and closed his eyes, hoping the man would've been proud of him. But before his dream carried him away, he opened his eyes, and stared down at the top sheet beneath his hands, and he nearly dropped his own letter in surprise.

There were far too many digits on the wrong side of the decimal point.

Furtively, Trowa folded up his letter, and studied the bank accounting printout. There were seven digits to the left of the decimal, and try as he might, he couldn't help suddenly feeling a bit less excited about the fact that his own income had just gone from five digits...to five digits. He'd never earned in the six digits, and having eight digits in a hacked account during the war to pay for contraband ammunition wasn't quite the same thing as having it all in an account where nothing needed to blow up to have access to the money. He realized his hands were shaking, and he splayed his fingers across the desk, forcing himself to lift his gaze from the printout. Quatre had certainly saved a great deal of money...

Then he saw the second printout, and couldn't help feeling queasy.

Eight digits to the left of the decimal point, and that was Quatre's savings account -- but worse, Trowa realized, skimming the sixteen pages that made up the list of everything Quatre had done in one month. Money moving in through here, and transferred to other accounts, and then interest payments -- and the interest payments then went to -- Trowa repeated the account numbers under his breath, as it dawned on him that not even counting what Quatre had earned in actual salary, in interest alone, in one month, Quatre could've bought the circus three times, paid Trowa's salary nine times, and probably had money to burn on about twenty-nine blue eight-foot sofas.

Very quietly, Trowa laid out the various papers, and picked out the single account that had expenses for the apartment. Six digits' worth of money in that account. He had no idea what the other nine or ten accounts were for, and he wondered why he'd even offered. He wondered, for that matter, just how measly he must seem, to be so excited about a ten-percent raise. Hell, Quatre's cook probably made more money than he did; she certainly cooked a lot better than Trowa did...

He wanted a drink. A very large, stiff, strong drink.

Shaking his head, he came to his feet. He couldn't do this. He'd always known Quatre was wealthy, that had always been obvious, even when Quatre had had nothing he'd still moved like a young man born to affluence, someone who expected people to listen -- and they did. But Trowa had met Quatre when Quatre had seen himself as having nothing, and that had made all the difference in the world, somehow. And seeing just how much Quatre did have, now, made all the difference back again. It certainly explained the knowing smiles, the patronizing looks, from some of Quatre's dinner guests and distant family when Quatre introduced Trowa and explained he was a Preventer. And it definitely explained why some of Quatre's sisters still viewed Trowa with clear suspicion. Trowa had never really given much thought to how much Quatre had, or made, but now he knew at least some small part of it, and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd had an inkling all along, and had that ever affected his interest in Quatre? Had that ever played even the smallest part?

And what the hell could he ever offer in return? On fifty-five thousand a year...probably nothing Quatre didn't already have. Sixty times over.

He pushed away from the desk and stood up, taking a moment to breathe through his nose before heading to the door. He'd call Cathy. She'd probably try to deck him again, but he just wanted to talk to someone real, someone who'd understand just how...shaken he felt. Eight digits in one account alone, and that wasn't the total of all the money that had gone in and out of the account, just what was left after a month of moving sums... Trowa nearly shouted when the study door opened under his hand, and he stepped back, narrowly missing getting hit in the face.

"Shit!" Quatre laughed and set down the two drinks on the sideboard, and embraced Trowa. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting you to be standing there. Are you done already?" He leaned forward, pressing his lips against Trowa's, and didn't seem to notice that Trowa still hadn't quite reacted. Quatre shook his head. "You're amazing, but I suppose I should've known. I see numbers all day, by the time bills roll around, I feel zapped..." He trailed off, mouth open a little, before cocking his head. "Trowa? Are you okay?"

"I need..." Trowa reached out, swept up the first drink, and downed it in one quick motion. Without pause, he set it down and took the second drink, doing the same, ignoring Quatre's startled yelp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and backed up, out of Quatre's grasp. "Sorry."

"What? Wait, hold on," Quatre replied, catching Trowa and guiding him to the study's leather loveseat that faced the desk. "Sit. What's going..." He turned, looking across the desk, and regret flashed over his features. When he turned to kneel before Trowa, his expression had calmed, but he looked concerned, and chagrined. "I'm sorry. That was my fault. You shouldn't--"

Trowa caught the meaning before Quatre had finished the words. "What? You didn't want me to see that?" The alcohol was sinking in, and he felt abruptly boneless, but somehow managed to stay upright. "Was I not supposed to see..."

"No, there's just no reason. Those other accounts, they're family accounts. They'd just be confusing..." Quatre exhaled, and settled down on his heels, hands on Trowa's knees. "I guess it's a lot of money."

"A lot." Trowa's laugh sounded more like a bark. "Quatre, you could pay for my entire team's salary for six months with what's in one of those accounts."

"It's not all my money," Quatre snapped. "I manage a lot of that--"

"For the family. Right." Trowa thought of all the times he'd wished to buy something small for Cathy, and hadn't had the money. He felt odd, knowing that if he'd only had the nerve to ask Quatre, he could've bought Cathy anything she wanted, and a pony, too. Or an entire herd. And then he thought of asking Quatre, as if requesting his own allowance, and felt sick that he'd ever see his lover as just a bank machine.

"Trowa?" Quatre's voice was soft, and hesitant. "You don't have to do the bills. I'll do them. Don't worry about it."

"I do my own bills," Trowa retorted, stung and not entirely sure why. He wasn't a delicate girl, or some incompetent who needed someone else to handle his money. He wasn't Duo, for starters, who'd spend every penny on shiny objects if Heero didn't clutch the credit cards with a death grip. Trowa had saved up a lot of money on his own, even if it was...well, it was nothing compared to Quatre. He figured four thousand dollars was probably what Quatre could spend on a good day and consider chump change. He was chump change. He was...

"Hey, hey," came the whisper. "I know that look. Whatever you're thinking, stop that."

"I'm not," Trowa replied, stubbornly, but closed his eyes against Quatre's worried expression. He shifted, and the letter crinkled in his pocket, reminding him. So much for a reason to celebrate. He felt insignificant, in a way he never had before. Eight digits, just for the household account. Or was that the six-digit account, and the seven-digit account was just the savings? Before the war, he'd not even been able to conceive of fifty thousand dollars, let alone in one huge pile; by war's end, he'd held that much cash in his hands two times, maybe three. Trying to think of taking that stack and multiplying it by sixteen made his head hurt...

"You're upset," Quatre whispered. "I didn't realize it would make you--"

"I'm fine. I need air." Trowa stood up suddenly, jerking himself out of Quatre's grip, and headed for the door. "I need to see Cathy. I'll be back later."

Quatre might've said something, but it wasn't loud enough to hear, and not clear enough that Trowa had to stop and ask, stop and acknowledge. He strode down the stairs, past the marble walls, gilt banister under his hands, real wool rug at the top of the landing, hand-painted tiles entwined in ancient Arabic patterns down the next set of stairs, past the floor-to-ceilling antique mirror from France, past a startled Montgomery and out the front door.

He was halfway to Cathy's when he realized somewhere he'd lost the letter of congratulations from Une, and he swore at himself. Why did it seem like everytime he left Quatre's, he managed to either leave something behind, or take the wrong thing with him? Well, damn it. Didn't matter, anyway, because there'd be soup and an overstuffed blue sofa waiting for him, and at least Cathy would understand just how terrified he'd suddenly become that everyone else had been looking at him and seeing him as there only for Quatre's money, and he'd been the only one ignorant, the entire time.

He felt like a fool.


	7. Sweeter Each Season 1

**Sweeter Each Season 1**

* * *

_We don't even have pictures / Just memories to hold_

_That grow sweeter each season / As we slowly grow old_

--John Mayer (Toad the Wet Sprocket)

* * *

Quatre glared when Eliza opened the door to the front parlor; she left a tray with tea and cookies set on the table near the door and slipped away, as quietly as she'd come. He ignored the staff's attempt to cheer him up -- did he look like he was five? -- and instead poured himself another shot of vodka, sloshing a little as he berated himself. What the fuck had he been thinking, just dumping it all on Trowa like that? He'd been so exhausted, yeah, but he was always exhausted after a day of work, and the idea of having someone he could share chores with...because the bills really were a chore, just more of the same of what he dealt with at work. Sometimes he felt like he never got to leave work, except for the time he spent with Trowa, when he could be himself, and not Director Winner, the boss, the man whose yes or no could change people's entire worlds for better or worse, the man in charge, more of the endless battlefield but with money on the line as well as lives--

The front door's soft click as the latch fell open brought Quatre out of his pacing, and he couldn't help but check his back pocket again, for the letter Trowa had left on the study's loveseat. His lover had said he'd wanted to celebrate, and what had Quatre done? Shoved in Trowa's face just how wealthy he was -- how could he forget how sensitive Trowa was to such things? He'd been an idiot, and cursed himself six more times in the three heartbeats between the front door's announcement and the soft footsteps passing the front parlor. Quatre held his breath, not sure whether to say anything, and then came a soft rapping, more a brush of knuckles but it was enough to make the door swing open, revealing Trowa's downcast face... and what the hell was that?

Quatre covered the length of the room in seven strides, taking Trowa's face in his hands. "What happened?" Shit, had Trowa gone and gotten himself roughed up at a bar? Wufei and Heero did that when they had issues, out to pick fights for the sheer thrill of fighting -- at least Heero did, until Duo jerked him out of that habit with a few well-pitched battles. Trowa winced when Quatre prodded gently at the bruise, already darkening to a rich purple. He couldn't help but be a little annoyed, after all his worrying. "Is this where you tell me the other guy looks worse?"

"Actually, no, she looks fine." Trowa calmly removed Quatre's hands, pulling them away from his face with a sigh. "Cathy sends her greetings."

"Cathy did this?" Quatre blinked. She was quick with the knives on stage, certainly, but she had to have a vicious right hook to get Trowa that solidly. "What did you say to her?"

Trowa mumbled something, and looked away with a slight shrug. It seemed to amount to a concession that he'd told her about the evening, and something in there had made Cathy deck him. Quatre wasn't sure whether he agreed with Cathy's response, or wanted to haul ass across town to her apartment to tell her to lay off on abusing his lover. That was his job...and the idea of cracking such a joke was suddenly not quite as amusing.

"I need to apologize," Quatre finally said, refusing to let go of Trowa's hands. "I just...there's never anyone to share things with, some parts...and you're someone I feel like I can. I want to. Everything. I just..." He could feel Trowa's hesitation, in the way Trowa's hands shook against his, and the furtive, ashamed glances Trowa kept giving their clasped hands. Quatre tugged Trowa forward, pulling him into the parlor and closing the door behind them. Leading Trowa to the sofa, he settled Trowa down; when Trowa demurred, looking like he wanted to pull away, Quatre growled and straddled Trowa's lap. "Now you're not going anywhere until we talk."

"It's been a long day," Trowa whispered, chin down. "I just want to go to bed."

"No, I let you walk out of here, but you walked back in, and that means we figure this out. You've always known I have money. I'm sorry if it was a shock, but I'm not entirely certain I get why it was that big of a shock."

"You have a lot of money."

"Yes. I have more money than God, Sanq, and all of L2 put together." Quatre went for blunt. "Wasn't the apartment, the car, the villa in Italy, the home on L4, the private shuttle all a clue?"

Trowa's shoulders slumped. "I'd never really thought about it, in concrete terms. Saw it in black-and-white..."

"I'm still me. I'm still here with you." Quatre tilted his hips, grinding himself against Trowa, and hardened a little at the movement. "I'm not leaving. You can go and come back as many times you want, but I'm here, and I want you to stay here. With me."

"But I--"

"No buts. What are you scared of?"

Trowa's quick glance, nettled, told Quatre he'd hit the mark. But Trowa merely pursed his lips and looked away, eyes settling into that wary, sulky expression Quatre wished he could wipe away permanently. No, not wipe; he'd rather just replace it with one of Trowa's rare, open smiles, and then replace it again, and again.

"I found your letter." Quatre pulled the now-crumpled paper from the back pocket of his slacks, and set it on the seat beside them. "Why didn't you tell me as soon as you got home?"

"I don't know," Trowa murmured. He shifted, probably trying to hint that he didn't want to be pinned down, but Quatre didn't move; he only settled more fimly onto Trowa's lap, and Trowa gasped softly before shutting his lips into a firm line.

"Look at me," Quatre said, at first intently, then softer: "look at me, please." Only once he had Trowa's gaze on him did he lean forward, cupping Trowa's face in his hands. "I make a lot of money. I work hard. I try to have fun when I can. But I will trade all that if that's what it takes to keep you in my life."

"Quatre," Trowa breathed, then frowned, trying to look away. "Don't make empty promises. It's a lot harder to walk away from--"

"I have before. I walked away for love of peace. Why can't I walk away for the love of my life?"

Trowa's frown grew deeper.

"Stop thinking I'm a romantic fool," Quatre chided. When Trowa glanced at him, quickly, then away, Quatre had to chuckle. "And while we're at it, stop thinking that I would ever think you're unimportant for any reason. Knowing I'll see you at the end of the day is what gives my days purpose, Trowa Barton."

"I don't want people thinking..."

Quatre snorted, then, leaning back just a bit to give Trowa a skeptical look. The movement also pushed him square up against Trowa's groin, and he was rewarded with another soft gasp, and fingers tightening on his thighs. "Since when do you give a good god-damn what anyone thinks?"

Trowa opened his mouth, was silent, closed his mouth, and dropped his chin. His only answer was a slight one-shouldered shrug, the merest hint of the gesture.

"Exactly. What do I have to do to prove it to you?" Quatre smiled, and leaned forward again to kiss Trowa, softly, then deeply. One of Trowa's hands slid up Quatre's thigh to settle at the small of his back, fingers scratching lightly through the soft cotton shirt.

"I don't want anyone thinking..." Trowa sighed, kissing Quatre again, before smiling a bit ruefully. "I don't want any of this. I don't need a villa in Italy, or a home on L4, or all these rooms. I just want you. That's all I want."

"Just me?" Quatre tilted Trowa's head back, mindful of the bruise on Trowa's cheek, and mouthed kisses along Trowa's jaw. Was that a soft moan? He nipped, then bit, and Trowa's fingers fluttered against his hips, groan half-caught in Trowa's throat. Around the kisses, Quatre whispered, "I'm told I'm quite a handful, I should warn you, even when I don't have any money."

"I'm sure the former..." Trowa moaned again, and tilted his hips up, sliding down a bit more on the seat, head thrown back. "...Alliance would agree..." His grip tightened on Quatre's hips, pulling them closer together with a sudden yank. "I like your handfuls..."

"It's a package deal." Quatre smiled, pleased he'd coaxed Trowa out of the dark, worried mood, and ran his tongue up Trowa's neck to lick with pointed tongue at the skin just behind Trowa's ear. The body beneath his grew soft and pliant suddenly, while other parts became hard, and Trowa whimpered, a sound only Quatre had ever heard, he was certain, and he never intended to share it, either. "I want you with me, always. What's mine, is yours. We'll share. There is no my-money, your-money, my-sofa, your-sofa, my-car, your-motorcycle..." He paused, grinning as he flicked his tongue back and forth across the shell of Trowa's ear. "Okay, car and motorcycle are negotiable."

"Mmm." Trowa's eyes had closed; his mouth had fallen open, and he writhed slowly, hips coming up to press against Quatre's before sinking away and then rise again. "Car. Cycle. 'Kay..."

"Mine, yours, ours," Quatre murmured, and the words came to his lips before he could stop himself, and he realized he didn't want to. "Marry me." He slid one hand into Trowa's shirt, angling down and across to run a finger around Trowa's nipple.

"Mm, yes," Trowa moaned, arching his back. He turned his head, blindly kissing whatever he could reach, craning his neck to reach Quatre's mouth, pushing his tongue between Quatre's teeth, probing -- and then suddenly he jerked back, completely frozen, eyes wide. "Did you--"

"Propose. And you said yes."

"I did?"

"Just now." Quatre rocked his hips. "So did the rest of you."

"But--"

Quatre sighed, and sat back, dropping his hands to his thighs. "What now?"

"Marriage."

"Yes. That's what it's called when two people stand together in front of a judge and do the whole I-do routine. You do not, however, have to wear--" He broke off, seeing his other favorite smile from Trowa -- well, one of his many favorite smiles, although they all were -- and Quatre gave Trowa a suspicous look. "What?"

"Duo says wedding cake is the anti-viagra," Trowa murmured. He brought up one hand, and undid the top button on Quatre's shirt, then the next button, and then a third; that tiny almost-smirk never left his lips. "I can never resist a chance to prove him wrong..."

"Hunh?" Quatre frowned, not entirely certain whether Trowa had just said yes, no, changed his mind, or was perhaps still tipsy from the two shots, an hour before. "Tro--"

Trowa sat up, pulling Quatre's chest to his lips, and Quatre made a rather embarrassing gurgling sound as a confused protest died and was reborn as a startled moan when Trowa's mouth came down around his nipple, and began sucking hard. God, Trowa always went for his weakest points. He shivered, hips beginning to buck, seeking friction, anything. He wanted to ask Trowa one more time to clarify, but the words kept falling away from him, especially when the top button of his slacks fell open and the room's cool air hit his stomach -- then Trowa's long fingers, digging into his boxers. Only when Trowa raised his head to take a breath could Quatre manage to ask, "so is this a yes or a--"

"It's a yes," Trowa growled. "Yes, I want you to marry me, yes, I was an idiot and I'm sorry, and yes, if you don't fuck me in the next thirty seconds I'm heading back to Cathy's and I won't come back."

"Are you threatening me?"

Trowa looked up at Quatre through those long eyelashes, a quick glimpse of smug green. "Are you going to fuck me or not?"

"I could, and I could make it a regular thing, too."

"Pencil me in." Trowa smirked, and wrapped his fingers around Quatre. "I have the instrument right here."

Quatre snorted. "That's hardly a pencil."

"Why? You running on unleaded--"

Quatre laughed, cut Trowa off with a kiss, and wondered if the tube of lube was still under the sofa's cushions. Hopefully the staff had the presence of mind to leave it where they'd found it, and hopefully Trowa wouldn't put two and two together and realize that Montgomery was probably quite aware of every place in the entire apartment that Quatre had stashed lube, just in case. Trowa slid sideways, bringing Quatre with him and angling his hips up to let Quatre yank his jeans down, and arched his back with an appreciative groan when Quatre wriggled down to press his lips against Trowa's hipbone. Quatre's fingers finally located the lube between the two back cushions, and brought it out, snapping the top open. At the sound, Trowa raised his head, glazed eyes seeming to focus momentarily on the clear bottle in Quatre's hand.

"Where did you hide that?"

"In the sofa." Quatre lowered his head and began to suck. Please don't ask, please don't ask--

"Does Montgomery know?"

Quatre had to laugh.


End file.
